Betrayed (5 page)

Angus swallowed. He had forgotten that the since the arrival of the Templars in Scotland, their continued existence had been kept a secret. In its place, the Order had decided to use the cover of the newly formed Lodges of Freemasonry in order to continue their network of meetings, decision-making and hierarchy.

“Sorry, father. But is there a chance that someday you will take us away from Roslin Castle so that I can help with your duties?”

Sir Rudyard grinned. “How would you like to leave with me tonight?”

Shocked, Connor and Angus looked at each other and then back to Sir Rudyard. “Tonight?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

They both nodded eagerly. The knight leaned forward and whispered in their ears. “Not a word to anyone. Go and quietly pack your belongings, then meet me at the gates after dusk. I'll tell you about it later.”

Connor and Angus turned to each other, their faces beaming. “Aye, sir!”

They burst out of the stable and made a mad dash across the narrow bailey of Roslin Castle. As they approached the side entrance of the castle, Connor stopped so quickly that
Angus crashed head first into his back.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, rubbing his nose.

Angus heard the approaching steps and understood. The rhythmic clicking noise could only come from the delicate steps of a woman. The boys tried to brush the clinging manure from their clothes then stood to attention. The heavy wooden door swung open, and the afternoon breeze blew forth a wave of golden locks into the air. Their nostrils filled with the sweet smell of lavender and rose as a beautiful young lady stepped out into the warm sunshine. Her long white dress billowed in the breeze, and the boys fought the urge to gawk at her angelic presence. They bowed with deep reverence.

“Good mornin', Princess Sarah,” said Angus.

The princess stopped before them. The pungent stench of fresh horse manure filled her nostrils. Her nose twitched in confusion as she looked at the young men.

“Angus and Connor, have you been playing in the stable yet again?”

“Not playing, but practicing, my lady,” Connor answered quickly.

A slight smile replaced the wrinkling of her nose. “It does my heart good to know that I have an army of dedicated, albeit rather pungent men to defend me.”

A mighty clang of metal cut short the conversation. A giant of a man, clad in chest-covering battle armour, stepped through the doorway and came to a halt behind the princess. His wide, well-fed face sported a thick black mustache. Under his arm he carried his darkened helmet, bearing the scrapes and dents of past battles. His narrow charcoal eyes sized up the two filthy squires with disgust.

“An entire enemy army could be repelled by such stench,” he growled. “Come along, Princess Sarah. I'm sure there is better air near the front gate.”

The boys bowed again as the young woman left their company and began a leisurely stroll with her guardian through the courtyard. Angus smiled at Connor, who daringly eyed the departing princess.

Angus elbowed him hard in the side. “Better think again, mate. If Prince Henry even gets a hint that you have eyes for his sister, he'll string you up on the outer wall and leave you there for raven food.”

Connor felt his cheeks burn. “I mean nothing by it. It's just that I've never seen a more bonny lass in my entire life.”

Angus rolled his eyes. “And I'm sure she's thinking right now that you were the most disgusting calf she has ever smelled in
her
entire life.”

“Who was the monster in armour that followed her out of the castle?” asked Connor.

Angus grimaced. “That's Sir Jonathon Douglas, but everyone calls him Black Douglas because of the black armour he wears into battle. Oh, he's jovial enough when he has an ale in his hand, but on the battlefield, he's as ruthless as they come. I hear that Prince Henry has given him high rank within the Templar Order for the good of our homeland. The Douglases are the most powerful clan in Scotland. Through The Templar Order, Prince Henry, for the first time in generations, has brought all of the warring Scottish clans together to help defend our homeland against the English invaders.”

“I'm glad it's Prince Henry leading us and not our jovial
friend, Black Douglas,” grumbled Connor. “What a horses' arse.”

“Forget about Black Douglas,” said Angus, changing the subject and grabbing Connor's arm. “Father is waiting. We don't have much time.”

The two ecstatic boys slapped each other on the back and ran through the doorway.

Connor's room was tiny and dim, the only source of light coming through a narrow vertical slit in the stone wall. If the castle ever came under attack, his room would be transformed into an elevated archery station, designed to protect the narrow causeway that stretched over the deep canyon surrounding the castle. A quiver of arrows and a bow stood in the in the corner of the room, ready to be used at a moment's notice.

The rest of the small room was occupied by four straw-covered cots, a stool and a rough table. On top of the table was a small candle that barely yielded enough light for Connor to complete his tasks. He had to share his sleeping quarters with three other aspiring squires. The others were busy tending to their duties, and he was glad to have a rare private moment. It would save him having to answer a flurry of questions from the other boys as he packed up his meagre belongings.

He pulled out two burlap sacks from under the mattress. After dumping the crumpled collection of clothing onto his cot, he threw the few decent pieces he owned back into the open sack. He left the most tattered pieces of cloth on his cot for the other squires to fight over when they returned to the empty room that evening.

Then, lifting the second bag, he paused. He closed his eyes and repeated his daily prayer, thanking God for continuing to watch over his mother in Heaven. He took a deep breath and carefully removed the items. He gingerly placed his mother's shawl on the table. He then removed a blackened dagger and held it up to the flickering candlelight. Connor and his mother had returned to their farm several weeks after the English had destroyed their property. They had dug through the pile of ashes that had been their modest home in search of anything that might have survived the inferno. Amongst the charred wood, Connor had discovered his father's ceremonial dagger. It had been severely damaged in the fire, and Connor would wait until the others had drifted to sleep then lovingly repair and polish the weapon. It had taken over a year before its darkened surface finally shone with a renewed glow. It was a weapon given to the family by a young Prince Henry for the dedication Connor's father had demonstrated during an ill-fated Scottish pilgrimage to the Holy Lands.

Reaching deep into the bag, he pulled out one final item: the MacDonald plaid. He had worn the red and blue tartan cape on only two other occasions since arriving at Roslin; when the castle staff stood in full colour to welcome Prince Henry home to the castle after a long voyage overseas. Some voyages were talked about openly, such as his required trip to Copenhagen for the crowning of the young King of Denmark, and also his safe passage to the shipyards of London in order to purchase two vessels for his ever-growing fleet. But there were also mutterings of strange, exotic Templar missions as well. Connor would give anything to hear the true nature of those distant journeys.

He grabbed his packed items and ran down the stairs to the wash station. A large barrel of rain water sat in an open room with a hole in the floor. He stripped naked and scrubbed his entire body with a rough leather cloth and lye until most of the stench went down the drain hole with the water. Still wet, he threw on his good tunic, tightened his belt and covered his shoulders with the MacDonald cape.

Sir Rudyard was already waiting with two dozen men when Connor strode out into the darkened courtyard. Connor was mortified to find out that he was the last one to arrive.

“Leave it up to Connor to be last again,” muttered the familiar voice of his friend.

Connor inched closer to Angus and gave him a kick on the back of his shin. Angus had to muffle his curse in front of the surrounding soldiers.

“Connor, look around!” whispered Angus. “We are standing next to soldiers that my father has only mentioned to me through story. Some here are from as far away as Italy and Germany! Sir Claude du Maurier, just ahead of us, fought in the final stand at Acre in the Holy Lands! They're all Templar Knights!”

“Unbelievable!” Connor whispered back. “It makes you wonder what we're doing here!”

He could barely contain his excitement and awe. He could hear the older men conversing in a variety of different dialects from the continent. Knowing only Gaelic and a small amount of English, he hadn't a clue as to what they were talking about.

Sir Rudyard strode up to the two young men. “Glad to see we're all here now.”

Connor's face flushed red in embarrassment. Sir Rudyard put his hands on Connor's shoulders. He tensed for a lecturing, or possibly worse. He couldn't believe he was about to be humiliated in front of all of these famous knights.

“Your MacDonald cape, Connor,” said Sir Rudyard, much to Connor's surprise.

“My cape, sir?”

He nodded. “As much as we all would like to stand proudly in the colours of our clan, I'm afraid that tonight is not the night for such a display. You'll have to put it away in your bag. Here. Take this one instead.”

He handed Connor a simple black cape. Connor then noticed everyone else in the gathering was wearing a cape of a dark shade.

“We are leaving under the cover of night for a reason,” Angus' father explained. “Secrecy is paramount. A dark cape will help hide our departure.”

“Yes, sir.”

Connor put on the cape and quickly stuffed his family colours away.

“Now, gentlemen,” Sir Rudyard said, striding to the front of the group, “if you would all follow me.”

Instead of gesturing for the main gate to be opened, Sir Rudyard led the band of men to the north wall. Behind a thick patch of ivy was a well-hidden door. They entered inky darkness, lit torches then descended a spiralling damp staircase that seemed so long, Connor feared it might lead them down into Hell itself. Finally, the clank of a key into a heavy lock signalled the end of the staircase.

The sweet fresh smell of the night air greeted the group as they stepped through a secret exit in the base of the
rocky precipice that so formidably guarded Roslin Castle. Awaiting them on the nearby banks of the River Esk were four shallow-draft skiffs. The men climbed onto the boats. Connor managed to stay beside Angus and his father as they found their places in the lead skiff.

Sir Rudyard turned to the rudderman and nodded. A pole pushed the skiff away from the water's edge. The current grabbed hold of the skiff's keel and began to push the craft and its passengers on a silent journey toward the awaiting sea.

As the bow of the open, single-mast ship roared up the frothing face of a North Sea wave, tipped and slid down the back side of the swell, Connor felt his burning stomach begin to slam once again into the underside of his ribs. He gagged, and leaving his post by the main sheet of the sail, he made a dash for the railing. He threw his head over the side of the ship and heaved out the two sips of water he had ingested only minutes earlier. His head pounded. He felt as if he were going to die.

Someone patted his back. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Connor, pale and shivering, turned to face the concerned gaze of Sir Rudyard.

Angus's father had to shout over the power of the roaring ocean to make his voice heard. “Getting your sea legs for the first time is the hardest yet most rewarding initiation there is, Connor. Soon you will be a sea rat just like the rest of us, loving the open ocean.”

“Yes, sir,” groaned Connor, as another wave of nausea
hit him and he dry-heaved into the sea.

“Don't worry, lad. This will be a short voyage. Believe it or not, you will live to see another day. In fact, we should have your feet back on solid ground before dinner.”

Sir Rudyard walked away without a single wobble as the rolling deck pitched downwards once again. Angus, not quite as steady on his feet as his father, managed to stagger across the heaving deck to his friend.

“Short?” muttered Connor as Sir Rudyard returned to his post next to the captain. “How can three days of torture be called a short voyage?”

“Cheer up,” said Angus, grabbing Connor by the shoulder. “Your salvation is near.”

Green-faced and gaunt, Connor managed a glance in the direction of his friend's pointed finger. Under the blanket of the slate-grey sky appeared to be a fierce serpent patrolling the murky horizon. The gaping, fanged mouth of the beast was, upon closer inspection, a wide, sheltered harbour. Behind the jagged outcrops of upper teeth, the high defensive wall of a massive castle formed the monster's nose. The serpent's angry forehead was composed of a majestic rectangular keep that dominated the approaching landscape. Two glowing eyes high on the keep's wall watched the tiny vessel approach. Connor realized that the orange lights were actually fiery signals for their approaching ship in order to help it navigate safely into the awaiting harbour.